Rhiannon (6 page)

Cardiff railway station was a dark and gloomy place, crowded with people all ignoring each other – not a bit like valley folk.

Mair reached for Rhiannon's hand. ‘Do you know the way to the theatre, Rhi?' She sounded frightened.

‘No. But don't worry. I'm sure if we ask that station guard over there he'll direct us.'

The guard was polite but brusque and left them in no doubt that the Empire Theatre on Queen Street was a good distance away. Without further delay Rhiannon, with their shared suitcase in her hand, led the way out of the station and, as directed, onto St Mary Street. Rhiannon sucked in a breath of cold, damp air. She hoped it wouldn't rain. Dressed in their Sunday best – grey woollen long-length skirts, high-necked blouses and grey over-jackets – the last thing they needed was to get wet through.

St Mary Street was wide, straight and very long, flanked either side by impressive large buildings. It was a hub of activity: pavements bustling with shoppers and hawkers, while open-topped trams, horse-drawn carriages and bicycles all vied for position on the road.

Under normal circumstances they would love to have stopped to take it all in, the wonderful window display of Howells & Co, the entrance to Cardiff market with its impressive stone arch, the old-fashioned tobacconist, with a stuffed grizzly bear just inside the door, would all have to wait for another day.

They headed north. The road stretched as far as the eye could see. After about a five-minute walk a wide-eyed Mair tugged on Rhiannon's sleeve. ‘Look, Rhi, there's Cardiff Castle. It's so big, so grand and so ... beautiful?'

Rhiannon nodded her agreement. ‘Ethel said it was a sight to behold, and she was right.'

‘Do you think we might visit it one day? Ethel said it was open to the public on certain days.'

‘We'll see. Now, come on. I don't want to be late,' Rhiannon urged as she led the way across Castle Street, which led to Queen Street – their destination.

Rhiannon decided it was too much to ask for her sister to maintain her silence of the train journey. Most of the time Mair had sat with her nose pressed against the window enthralled. Rhiannon had welcomed a respite from the twelve-year-old's inquisitiveness of the night before.

‘What will we do when we get to Cardiff? Are you sure your auntie will take us in? If not, where shall we stay?' The very same questions Rhiannon had asked herself and more. Was she being foolhardy, leaving her beloved valley on a whim? What would Dad have said?

Last night she'd avoided having to answer Mair, and had simply said, ‘The sooner you get to sleep the sooner you'll find out.'

 

Five minutes later they had their first glimpse of the Empire Theatre. The night before, Ethel Lewis had explained how the original theatre had been destroyed by fire in 1899, to be replaced in 1900 by a bigger and better one which was rightfully the pride of Cardiff.

Set in the middle of a row of shops, with the Molyneux Shoe Company to its right and a small sweetshop on its left, the theatre looked decidedly out of place.

It was remarkable how the sight of the theatre with its impressive gold-and-red frontage, marble entrance and two large shields cast in bronze standing proudly above the main doors, representing the county and the city, instantly lifted their spirits.

‘Rhi, are we going to visit your Aunt Florrie before the show?'

‘I don't think we should bother Aunt Florrie just yet. I'm sure she'll have more time for us after the show.' If the truth were known Rhiannon wanted to put off her aunt's inevitable questions concerning the accident down the mine and the death of her father for as long as she could.

‘Rhi, is there time for us to find something to eat? I'm starving.'

‘Your stomach will have to wait. By the look of the queues outside the theatre I think we'd best get in line. I don't want to miss the matinée.'

The girls took their place behind a mixed theatre crowd: men wearing bowler hats, straw boaters and cloth caps; women, with flowered hats and feathered bonnets. Some wore elegant dresses,
others were in shawls, blouses and long serge skirts.

‘There's a sweetshop next door selling toffee apples. Can I have one, Rhi? Pl-ease.'

Rhiannon reached into her purse and took out a shiny new sixpence. ‘I'm afraid it'll have to do you until we can arrange a proper meal.'

‘Thanks, Rhi. Shall I get one for you too?'

Rhiannon shook her head. Her stomach was doing somersaults.

‘No thanks. I'm not hungry.'

As their queue edged closer to the foyer they spotted the large poster over the door advertising ‘
All The Way from Paris – The Great Florrie Grayson!
' underneath a photo of her aunt in all her finery. Rhiannon stared at the photo. It had been nearly six years since Rhiannon had last seen her aunt. She looked exactly the same now – she hadn't changed a bit.

‘Gosh, Rhi, I didn't realize she was such a beauty. You look just like her.'

A man, dressed in a smart evening suit with crisp white high-necked shirt and bow tie, appeared on the top step in front of the theatre. He beamed at them as he raised a white-gloved hand in an exaggerated theatrical way. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the box-office doors are now open. Those with tickets please form two separate queues. Stalls and circle to the right, upper circle and gods to the left.

‘Which one are we in, Rhi?' Mair urged.

‘I'm not sure. I'd better check.'

Rhiannon reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter from Aunt Florrie containing the four theatre tickets meant for Dad, Nellie, Mair and herself. She removed two of the tickets and inspected them. ‘It just says BOX ONE. We'll have to ask someone. ‘Come on,' she urged as she bent down to pick up her suitcase. ‘Let's join the queue.'

‘Not long, now, Rhi. I'm that excited I could wet myself!'

‘Mair, will you behave?'

‘Rhi, you're always so stuffy.'

Soon the queue began to move faster. As it neared the large entrance they found themselves being pushed along by the crowd.

‘Make sure you stay close, Mair, I don't want to lose you.'

‘No chance of that. I'm holding on to your coat as tight as I would a ten-bob note.'

As they passed through the large glass double doors, with THE EMPIRE THEATRE etched in bold gold-leaf letters, they caught their
first glimpse of the opulent theatre foyer; with its grand marble entrance, gilded doors festooned with plush red-velvet drapes, a high ceiling ornately decorated with blue flowers and gold cherubs and a sweeping brass-railed staircase covered in thick red carpet. It was so grand it took their breath away.

‘Will you two stop dawdling and get a bloody move on? You're holding us all up,' a woman complained from behind.

‘Sorry. Come on, Mair,' Rhiannon said.

A young girl not much older than Rhiannon held out her hand. ‘Tickets, please.' On taking the tickets she did an immediate double take, her eyes darting from them to Rhiannon and then to Mair. Then, as she flashed them a friendly smile, she said, ‘Please follow me.'

The young girl led them through a doorway, then up a few stairs to a small private seating area at the side of the stage.

‘Here we are, then. Please ... take your seats,' the young girl said.

Inside the box there were four gilt chairs with red-plush seats, each facing the stage; so close Rhiannon could almost touch the elaborate gold-fringed red curtain that hung across it from the high proscenium arch.

She caught her breath and could almost taste the scent of wood, tobacco, stale beer and hair-oil, all combined – pungent and yet strangely pleasurable.

‘Rhi, did you know it was going to be as lovely as this?' Mair whispered as the girl in her neat black-and-white dress waited for them to take their seats.

‘No. I'm as surprised as you, but isn't it great? It's another world,' Rhiannon said.

‘Are you sure these are
our
seats?' Rhiannon enquired.

The girl smiled. ‘Miss Grayson booked this box for her “special guests”.'

Rhiannon nodded. ‘Oh I see.' She didn't really. If it were true then it meant she and Mair were somehow special; surely that couldn't be?

Mair was first to take her seat, leaving Rhiannon to sit next to her.

‘You might like to place your suitcase under the seat, miss, there's plenty of room.'

‘Thank you, I will. You're very kind.'

‘Miss Grayson gave strict instructions to look after you. So enjoy the show. I'll come and see you at the interval.' Then handing Rhiannon a free programme she turned and left. Like Rhiannon's, Mair's head was on a swivel in an attempt to take in the vastness of the auditorium, the
flurry of flowered hats, feather bonnets, straw boaters and bowler hats, so many beautiful people, all dressed up to the nines, filling every seat of the stalls and all three tiers above.

‘Look at the top balcony, Rhi. It's packed with ordinary folk like us – you can tell they're not toffs. Are you sure we shouldn't be up with them? Mind you, I don't know that I'd fancy being that far up. Why, it's as high as the sky!'

‘You heard what the girl said; we're definitely in the right seats. Maybe that floor's the one the man on the door called the gods? It makes sense when you think about it.'

‘Rhi, do you think my mother could be here?'

Mair hadn't mentioned Nellie for a long while, most of the time she made out she couldn't care less, but Rhiannon knew it must have really hurt when Nellie had upped and left.

‘It's possible, I suppose. But you have to remember Cardiff is a very big place, she could be anywhere.'

‘Good riddance, that's what I say. It wouldn't worry me if I never saw her again!'

While Rhiannon doubted this to be the truth, she let it pass, sensing that it was probably Mair's way of coping.

 

Mair Parsons searched the auditorium, looking for her mother, while at the same time wondering what she would do if she found her. It was obvious that her mother wanted nothing to do with her. Why else would she have abandoned her? And it didn't stop with her mother. When her father had been due to be released from prison she had written to her grandmother in Nantymoel; it had done no good, not one of her family had ever attempted to make contact.

For a long while she had no idea where her mother had gone. Then, by chance, one of the valley gossips bumped into Nellie in Cardiff and couldn't wait to tell Mair how well she looked and how she'd never even asked after her daughter.

Mair swallowed hard, she'd made a vow not to cry. As far as she was concerned her mother was, like Rhiannon's, dead and buried. They were a pair of orphans. All they had was each other. But who was she trying to kid? They were nothing alike; Rhiannon never spent
her
childhood being pushed from pillar to post.
She
had a father who worshipped her and even though she'd suffered the loss of her mother, she could take comfort in knowing she had been deeply loved.

Now Rhiannon had her precious Aunt Florrie and, no matter how
much they pretended, Florrie Grayson was nothing to Mair; they had never even met. Mair decided there and then to be on her best behaviour when they did – at least until she was sure that Florrie Grayson accepted her along with Rhiannon.

 

At the back of the upper circle was the Theatre Bar and behind this a place known to all as the promenade, frequented mostly by men and a regular haunt for prostitutes and rent boys.

Nellie hated the seedy Theatre Bar, full of unattractive low-life men. She much preferred it when Harry used to take her to the high-class Lounge Bar behind the circle with waiter service. It was here that she mixed with the élite and she and Harry were often invited to high society parties. Of course, the men still wanted the same thing – Harry made sure of that.

In the beginning Harry hadn't put any pressure on her. He had even encouraged her to be choosy.

‘Don't you go bothering with any ruffians; you're worth more than that,' he'd said. ‘You're more suited to the younger well-to-do men or, better still, the, grateful, older gentlemen. There's no rush. I want you to be happy about it.'

Nellie so wanted to please Harry.

It all started with one or two well-to-do punters, carefully chosen by Harry to ease her in gently. Part of her had been flattered that such well-heeled gentlemen were willing to pay for her body. What a fool she'd been. It wasn't long before she found out that Harry had actually paid two out-of-work actors to pose as gentlemen to ease her into her new profession.

‘Come on, Nellie, love, give us a kiss,' Jake Brewer pleaded.

Jake was one of her regulars, an ex-boxer with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear to prove it. He was in his late forties with a paunch the size of a punchbag. Mind you if his appetite for sex was anything to go by, no one could accuse him of not being fit.

‘It'll cost you. You get nothing for nothing.' Nellie sniggered.

‘Not even for a friend of Harry's?' The man moved closer.

Nellie suppressed a shiver. Why was it that, these days, most of Harry's ‘friends' were fat, balding and reeked of stale beer and cigarettes?

‘I thought Harry told you to be nice to me.'

‘Yes, he did. But he'll also expect me to have at least ten guineas in my purse at the end of the night. So take heed. If you want me you're
going to have to pay!'

‘Hey, where are you going?' the fat man called. ‘I was only joking. I've got money, lots of it. Come on, let's go to your digs.'

 

As the lights dimmed, the orchestra, in a pit beneath the stage, started to play the overture. The programme said it would be a selection of music from the forthcoming performance.

Rhiannon felt a buzz of excitement causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. It was so ... magical.